I have been so excited to post this chapter! Hope you enjoy!

Draco Malfoy woke early, as he always did, before the sun had fully risen. The dim light filtering through the heavy curtains of his bedroom cast the familiar shadows across the room—long and angular, stretching over the ornate furniture and expensive trappings of Malfoy Manor. It was a space that had once felt suffocating, but now it was simply quiet. The stillness that had once unsettled him had become a refuge.

Sitting up, Draco ran a hand through his pale blond hair, which fell messily over his eyes. The manor was silent, as it always was these days. The absence of voices, of laughter, of life, was something he had come to accept. His mother, Narcissa, still resided in the manor, though she had withdrawn into a quiet, reclusive existence, rarely leaving her chambers. As for his father, Lucius—he was gone. Azkaban had claimed him, both in life and in death. The man Draco remembered had faded long before the end, leaving behind only a cold shadow of his former self, and now even that was lost to the past.

It suited Draco. He didn't need the noise, the constant pressure of their expectations. Not anymore.

Rising from his bed, he moved through the motions of his morning routine with practised ease. First, a long, hot shower, where the steam enveloped him, momentarily erasing the lingering weight of his thoughts. The past was always present in his mind, a dark shadow that clung to his every step, but the morning shower gave him a brief reprieve. It was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself.

Afterward, he dressed meticulously, as he had been taught from a young age. His wardrobe was vast, filled with robes of the finest fabrics and tailoring, but these days, Draco favoured simplicity. He pulled on a set of dark grey robes, tailored to perfection but unadorned. No longer the flashy, silk-lined robes of his youth—no need to draw attention to himself. He didn't crave it anymore. His life had become one of quiet solitude, and he preferred it that way.

As he fastened the silver cufflinks at his wrists, his mind wandered to the day ahead. He had no specific plans, but he knew he wanted to go to Diagon Alley. He needed a few more ingredients for the potions he'd been working on, and perhaps he could browse the bookshops for anything new or interesting. Potions had become his refuge in recent years—an art that demanded precision, focus, and control. It was the one area of his life where he could still excel without the baggage of his family's name weighing him down.

Once dressed, Draco crossed the room to the large mirror by the door. His reflection stared back at him—sharp, pale features, his grey eyes cool and guarded. He looked older than his thirty-one years, though he supposed that was to be expected. The war, the years after, the loss of his child… they had all left their marks.

With a final glance at the mirror, Draco turned and made his way downstairs. The manor was as it always was—quiet, still, a relic of a past that no longer seemed relevant. He passed through the grand hall, its walls lined with portraits of ancestors who had once wielded power and influence over the wizarding world. Their stern faces watched him, but Draco barely noticed anymore. He had long stopped caring what they thought of him.

In the dining room, a house-elf appeared as soon as Draco entered, bowing deeply before offering him breakfast. "Master Malfoy, would you like tea with your meal this morning?"

Draco waved a hand dismissively. "No, I'll take something light. I'm not staying long."

The elf nodded and disappeared, reappearing moments later with a simple tray of toast, butter, and a pot of black coffee—a copy of this morning's edition of the Daily Prophet tucked between the silverware. Draco sat down at the long, empty dining table, his mind already elsewhere as he sipped the bitter coffee. The room felt cavernous, the silence almost oppressive, but it was a silence Draco had grown accustomed to. He ate mechanically, skimming the headlines but his thoughts mostly on the potions ingredients he would need to gather that day.

After finishing his meal, Draco stood, brushing crumbs from his robe. Without another word, he left the dining room and headed toward the front of the manor. As he stepped outside into the crisp morning air, the cool breeze hit his face, waking him up fully. The vast grounds of Malfoy Manor stretched out before him—neatly manicured gardens, hedges trimmed to perfection, but devoid of any real beauty to his eyes. It was all just… there.

Taking a breath, Draco turned on the spot, and with a soft crack, he Disapparated.

When Draco arrived in Diagon Alley, the usual bustle of the morning crowd greeted him. Witches and wizards hurried past, going about their business, some with children in tow, others laden with shopping bags. The familiar sight of the cobbled street, lined with its eclectic mix of shops, brought a faint sense of nostalgia, though Draco kept that feeling at bay. Diagon Alley had changed over the years—much like everything else.

Draco glanced around, his sharp eyes taking in the scene. He had a few stops to make before heading to his potions lab later that afternoon. First, the apothecary, where he could stock up on the rarer ingredients he needed. Then perhaps a visit to Flourish and Blotts —it had been a while since he had picked up any new books, and reading was one of the few distractions he allowed himself.

As he made his way toward the apothecary, Draco's mind wandered to the potion he had been working on—a variation of Veritaserum that required an unusual concentration of powdered asphodel root and the essence of moonstone. It was a delicate process, but one that fascinated him. There was something deeply satisfying about creating something so precise, so potent, through sheer discipline and control.

The apothecary was crowded, as it often was this time of day. Draco stepped inside, the familiar scent of herbs and potion ingredients filling the air. Shelves lined the walls, packed with jars of strange and exotic substances—everything from crushed beetle eyes to powdered dragon horn. Draco nodded to the shopkeeper, who knew him well enough by now not to engage in small talk, and began browsing the aisles.

His hand skimmed over the rows of jars, his practised eye picking out what he needed. Asphodel root, ground finely into powder. Essence of moonstone, carefully sealed in a small glass vial. A rare plant he hadn't used in years, but one he would experiment with soon—devil's snare, in a dried form, potent when brewed correctly. Each item he picked out was carefully considered, though Draco moved through the shop with an efficiency that came from years of practice.

Once he had gathered what he needed, Draco made his way to the counter. The shopkeeper tallied his items without comment, and Draco paid in silence, tucking the ingredients into his leather satchel. With a brief nod, he stepped back out into the street.

The sun was higher now, casting a warm light over the cobblestones. Draco paused for a moment, watching the people move around him. Diagon Alley was alive with activity—children darted between their parents, young witches and wizards browsing shops, and older wizards haggled with vendors. It was a scene that Draco was once part of, but now he stood at the periphery, always observing but never truly engaging.

He pulled his satchel closer and began walking toward Flourish and Blotts . The idea of spending an hour or two among the stacks of books was appealing, more so than lingering in the crowds. The bookshop had always been a sanctuary of sorts for Draco, though it had never held the same allure for him as it did for Granger. A faint sneer curled his lips at the thought of her—always buried in a book, her hand shooting into the air during lessons at Hogwarts. But even he had to admit, over the years, that knowledge had its uses. Still, the sudden thought of her felt strange, like an unexpected flicker in his mind, unsettling in its randomness. Of all the people to drift into his thoughts today, it had to be Granger? He pushed the feeling away, irritated with himself for letting his mind wander to the days of Hogwarts.

When he entered the shop, the familiar smell of parchment and ink washed over him, calming his restless thoughts. The aisles were quiet compared to the hustle of the street outside, and Draco made his way toward the section dedicated to advanced potions and spellcraft. He browsed the titles, his fingers trailing over the spines of the books. Many were old editions, volumes he had seen before, but there were a few new ones—one in particular that caught his eye.

It was a thick tome, bound in dark leather, titled Advanced Theories of Potions and Transmutation . Draco pulled it from the shelf and flipped through the pages, skimming the dense text. It was exactly the kind of book he had been searching for—detailed, complex, and filled with rare information. He tucked the book under his arm, already anticipating the quiet hours he would spend later that evening poring over its contents.

As Draco continued to browse, his mind drifted once again to the quiet of the manor, the solitude that awaited him once he returned. He didn't mind it—solitude had become a kind of companion to him over the years—but sometimes, when the silence grew too heavy, he wondered if this was all there was. If this was all that remained for him—a life of quiet, of potions and books, of memories and ghosts.

Shaking off the thought, Draco returned to the present. He had what he needed for the day. It was enough. With a final glance at the shelves, Draco made his way to the counter, paid for the book, and stepped back out into the bustling street.

The day stretched before him, predictable and quiet, just as he preferred.

For now.

"Rose, where's your other shoe?" Hermione called out, her voice laced with mild frustration as she rifled through the clutter on the kitchen counter. "We're not leaving until you've got both of them."

Her four-year-old daughter poked her head out from the living room, her wild red curls bouncing as she ran in, one foot clad in a tiny trainer, the other bare. "Mummy, I don't know!" Rose giggled, as though misplacing her shoe was the funniest thing in the world.

Hermione sighed, glancing at the clock out of habit, though they weren't in a rush. For once, there was no meeting to get to, no urgent work waiting for her at the Ministry. She had taken the day off—a rare luxury—and they were going to spend it together in Diagon Alley. No paperwork, no memos, no endless lists of tasks. Just a day out with her daughter. But of course, getting out the door was its own kind of challenge.

"Honestly, Rose, how do you manage to lose something every single time we're about to leave?" Hermione knelt down to check under the sofa, where many of Rose's missing items tended to end up. Sure enough, the tiny trainer was wedged between two of Rose's stuffed animals. Hermione pulled it out with a triumphant smile, rolling her eyes playfully. "You're worse than your Uncle Harry, you know that?"

Rose just smiled that disarming smile of hers, her cheeks dimpling as she watched her mother. "I'm good at hiding things!" she declared, as if that explained everything.

Hermione couldn't help but chuckle, her earlier frustration melting away. She slipped the shoe onto Rose's foot and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. "Right, let's get going before you manage to lose anything else."

With that, they left the flat, stepping into the cool morning air. Hermione took Rose's hand as they began the short walk to the Leaky Cauldron. Once they were through the stoned wall, they were met with the familiar cobbled streets bustling with early shoppers and vendors setting up their stalls. There was a lightness in the air today, the sort of day that made Hermione feel almost carefree—something she hadn't experienced in far too long.

Rose skipped happily beside her, her curls bouncing as she tugged her mother toward the various shop windows that lined the street. "Mummy, can we get an ice cream? And then can we go to the Quidditch shop? Please?" Rose's enthusiasm was infectious, her little face lighting up with excitement at every new shop they passed.

Hermione smiled, though inwardly she sighed at the mention of Quidditch. Of course, Rose was obsessed with the sport, just like her father, her uncle Harry, and especially her aunt Ginny. The love of Quidditch seemed to run in the family—everyone except for Hermione, who had never understood the appeal. Still, she couldn't deny her daughter her passion.

"We'll get ice cream after we've had a look around," Hermione promised, her eyes scanning the street for their first stop. "And we can visit the Quidditch shop later if you behave yourself."

Rose beamed at that, squeezing Hermione's hand in delight. "I will! I promise!"

The day began with a stop at Flourish and Blotts , where Hermione couldn't resist buying Rose a new book— The Tales of Beedle the Bard , an illustrated edition that had just come out. Rose, predictably, was less excited about the book and more interested in the enchanted quills on display, but Hermione was determined to encourage her daughter's love of books. They spent some time in the shop, browsing through the stacks, and Hermione found herself lost in the familiar smell of parchment and ink, her mind drifting to all the books she wished she had time to read.

But before long, Rose began tugging on her sleeve again, her eyes darting toward the door. "Mummy, can we go to the Quidditch shop now? Please?"

Hermione sighed good-naturedly, slipping the book into her enchanted bag. "Alright, alright. Quidditch shop it is."

They left Flourish and Blotts and made their way down the cobbled street toward Quality Quidditch Supplies . As they approached, Rose's eyes lit up at the sight of the gleaming brooms in the window display. A large poster of Viktor Krum loomed over the shop, showcasing the latest Thunderbolt model, and Rose practically dragged Hermione inside, her excitement palpable.

"Mummy, look! That's the broom Daddy was talking about!" Rose exclaimed, pointing to the Thunderbolt on display. "Do you think I'll get one when I'm older?"

Hermione smiled, bending down to Rose's level. "Maybe when you're older," she said, though the thought of Rose flying through the air on a broomstick filled her with the same dread she had felt every time Ron had played Quidditch. "But you'll need to practise first."

Rose nodded solemnly, as if accepting this great responsibility. She spent the next few minutes darting around the shop, examining the different models of brooms, posters, and enchanted Quaffles. Hermione watched her with amusement, though her mind drifted to the long afternoon ahead. This was supposed to be a day of relaxation, but already she could feel the tension creeping back into her shoulders. She needed to stop worrying about work, stop thinking about the Ministry and all the things she needed to do.

After indulging Rose in the Quidditch shop, they made their way to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour —the promise Hermione had made earlier finally coming to fruition. Rose, predictably, ordered chocolate with extra sprinkles, while Hermione opted for a simple Lemon Sherbert. They sat outside at one of the small tables, enjoying the sunshine and the rare moment of peace.

Rose licked her ice cream happily, her face smudged with chocolate as she watched the passersby. "Mummy, do you think I'll be a Seeker one day?" she asked, her voice full of wonder.

Hermione smiled at her daughter, her heart swelling with love. "I think you can be whatever you want to be," she said softly, though inwardly she hoped Rose's Quidditch ambitions would remain just dreams for now. "But you'll need to practise flying first."

Rose nodded earnestly, as if this were a matter of great importance. "Uncle Harry said I can borrow his old broom when I'm bigger. Maybe I'll be just like him!"

Hermione chuckled, wiping a bit of ice cream from Rose's cheek. "We'll see, darling. We'll see."

As Rose continued to chatter about Quidditch and her future as a Seeker, Hermione let her mind wander. The autumn sun was warm on her face, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, she felt a sense of calm. There was no rush, just this moment, with Rose, in the heart of Diagon Alley. It was everything she had hoped for when she'd decided to take the day off.

But even in the calm, her thoughts began to drift back to the Ministry. She had left a stack of papers on her desk, unfinished proposals for the new Magical Creature Rights initiative she had been working on. It was important work, something that could really make a difference, but the weight of it all was starting to bear down on her. Even now, with the sun shining and her daughter by her side, Hermione couldn't completely escape the feeling that there was always something more she needed to be doing.

Hermione glanced down at her enchanted bag, where a stack of parchments from the Ministry sat neatly, awaiting her attention. Maybe if she just took a quick look at the proposal, she could get a head start before the week began. It wouldn't take long—just a brief glance. Rose seemed content for the moment, sitting at the table beside her, distracted by the toy broomsticks and enchanted Snitches being played with by the children nearby.

With a sigh, Hermione reached into her bag and pulled out the folded parchments. As her eyes skimmed over the first few lines, her brow furrowed slightly. The wording of the proposal wasn't quite right. Perhaps if she restructured it—

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker of movement—a small golden blur, darting across her peripheral vision. An enchanted Snitch must have escaped from one of the nearby shops, its erratic flight pattern barely registering in her mind as she focused on her work. She kept reading, her attention still on the parchment.

"Mummy, look!" Rose's excited voice broke through her thoughts. But by the time Hermione processed what she had heard, it was already too late.

Her head snapped up, and her heart skipped a beat. The Snitch was weaving through the air, and Rose—determined as ever—was chasing after it, her small figure darting through the crowd. Hermione's eyes widened in panic as she watched her daughter disappear, her wild curls bouncing as she ran deeper into the throng of shoppers.

"Rose, wait!" Hermione shouted, springing to her feet, but Rose was already gone, her tiny form swallowed by the bustling crowd before Hermione could react.

Panic surged through Hermione's chest, her papers abandoned on the table as she pushed her way through the busy street. "Rose!" she called, her voice rising with fear, but her daughter was nowhere to be seen. The cobbled streets of Diagon Alley, usually so familiar, now felt like a chaotic maze, the crowd thickening with every second, making it nearly impossible to move quickly.

"Rose!" she called again, her breath coming in quick, panicked bursts. Her heart raced as she scanned the faces around her, desperate for even a glimpse of Rose's wild red curls, but there was nothing. She had only looked away for a moment—just a moment—and now her daughter was gone.

Frantic, Hermione stopped a nearby witch. "Excuse me, have you seen a little girl?" Her voice trembled with desperation, but the witch shook her head apologetically, offering no help.

"Rose! Please, where are you?" Her pulse thundered in her ears as she hurried toward the Quidditch shop, hoping that maybe—just maybe—Rose had wandered back to the display she'd been so enamoured with earlier.

But when Hermione arrived, there was no sign of her daughter. The poster of Viktor Krum loomed overhead, mocking her with its cheerful grin, as if reminding her of the thing Rose had loved so much—the thing she had chased, leaving her mother behind.

Hermione's chest tightened, panic fully gripping her now. She spun around, her mind racing through every possible worst-case scenario. What if someone had taken her? What if Rose had gotten lost in the crowds? What if—?

No. She couldn't think like that. Not yet.

Her hands shook as she pulled out her wand in pure instinct, her rising fear slowly taking over. She needed to stay calm, needed to think. Rose couldn't have gone far. But each minute that passed without seeing her felt like an eternity.

"Mummy!" The voice wasn't Rose's, but the faint sound of another child calling for their parent made her stomach clench tighter. She turned in the direction of the sound, her eyes scanning the crowds again.

Where was she?

Forcing herself to take a deep breath, Hermione tried to retrace their steps. She stopped a shopkeeper nearby. "Please, have you seen a little girl? Four years old, curly red hair, wearing a pink jacket?" Hermione's voice trembled as she spoke, her grip tightening on her wand.

The shopkeeper frowned, shaking his head slowly. "Sorry, haven't seen her," he muttered, turning back to his work.

Hermione's heart sank even further. She felt the tears burning at the back of her eyes but refused to let them fall. She couldn't break down now—not while Rose was missing.

She pushed through the crowd again, her panic rising with every passing second. "Rose! Rose!" Her voice was hoarse, but there was no answer, no sign of her daughter. The street seemed to stretch out before her endlessly, faces blurring together in a haze of worry.

Suddenly, a flicker of gold caught her eye. A Snitch.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat.

She darted toward the tiny golden ball as it flitted through the air, weaving in and out of the crowd, disappearing down one of the alleyways off the main street. Hermione's heart pounded as she hurried after it, her hope reigniting.

But when she turned the corner into the alleyway, the Snitch was gone.

Hermione stood frozen for a moment, her mind racing with dread. She felt the sting of tears in her eyes again, but she blinked them away. She couldn't afford to lose control now. Not while her daughter was still out there, somewhere.

"Please, someone help me," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the din of the a deep breath, she forced herself to keep moving. She couldn't stop. She couldn't give in to the fear. She had to find Rose.

And with that thought, Hermione pushed forward, her eyes scanning every face, every corner, every shadow, hoping, praying, that she would find her daughter before it was too late.

Next time our favourite people will finally have their reunion!